


Prometheus, Prometheus, I will not bind thee

by eldritcher



Series: The Prometheus Triptych [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abraxas knows what Riddle has been doing to himself. Dumbledore speaks of monsters and Slughorn speaks of Prometheus while Abraxas finds himself conflicted between love and conscience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prometheus, Prometheus, I will not bind thee

Notes: This forms a triptych of sorts with A Rhapsody in Riddle (circa 1942) and I Will Always Sing for You (circa 1976). It falls between the mentioned story pieces.

Thank you to mizstorge on LJ whose encouragement ensured that this was completed.

Warnings: Violence. Mention of past abuse. Sexual situation.

* * *

  
**Prometheus, Prometheus, I will not bind thee**   


 

The Hog’s Head was not my dining locale of choice. Yet here I was, seated languidly at one of the corner-booths, facing the entrance, and enraptured as ever with the conversation of my companion. He spoke of magic and its boundaries, of long, perilous journeys and prizes beyond imagination, and his eyes lingered wistfully on the turrets of the castle that shadowed Hogsmeade. I could not help a smile at his visible yearning as I remembered a thin, handsome waif lighting up the dark, damp dungeons of our House with his meteoric brilliance and unsurpassed courage. There he had been crowned, and there he yearned to return with every fibre of his being.

A merry shout preceded my name and I looked up to see one of my favourite men on earth making his ponderous way towards us, his sagging face creased in a wide grin of pleasure. He came to me and clapped my shoulder in goodwill before exclaiming, “I heard the most excellent news about you, my boy!”

As much as I respected Slughorn, I wished that he had chosen any time but this to congratulate me on the good tidings.

“Really, Professor, there is no need for such laudation. Impregnating a woman is hardly a complex task,” my companion told Slughorn in sharp, vexed tones.

Slughorn’s enthusiasm faded and I looked away from the pinched regret on his face. He held himself culpable for my companion’s lack of ambition. Who was he to know that his prize student’s ambitions went beyond the fabric of mortality itself?

“Tom, my boy, will you not take down that hood?” Slughorn requested as he eased himself into the chair I had pulled up for him. “I have not seen you since you left Hogwarts and started your…apprenticeship. Have you been so pressed for time that you could not even answer my letters? I could talk to Burke, you know, to let up on you if he has been using you mercilessly. He is not the easiest master.”

“I am fine,” my companion muttered, uneasy as ever whenever subjected to fussing. He did pull down his hood, though, and gestured to the barkeep to serve Slughorn. I bit back a smile at his imperious manner. His pride had not mellowed a jot from the very first day when I had set my eyes upon that impoverished, starved, abused orphan.

Slughorn was staring at his favourite student in alarm, no doubt stricken by Riddle’s pallor and thinness. I caught Riddle’s gaze and narrowed my eyes. He seemed to understand and quickly leaned over the table towards Slughorn.

“Have you been well, Professor?” he began, all charm and bon-vivre. “I chanced to see your recent publication on the dangers of using unrefined ambergris in pre-natal potions. I wonder if those grave consequences might be avoided if we substituted the powdered hellebore at the previous stage with-”

And Slughorn fell into the conversation headlong. I smiled and sat back, sipping my Firewhiskey and savouring its warm burn down my throat, and watched their discussion. Riddle, debating, was one of my favourite scenes in the world. It probably came right after the sight of Riddle creating music, Riddle immersing himself in spell-crafting, Riddle charming audiences with his charisma and quiet conviction, Riddle riding the broom, Riddle duelling and Riddle dancing. It was a testament to how deeply the rot had set in that I hardly had a single moment to myself before I had thought of Riddle. At least, he remained unaware of how deep my affection for him ran. It was not that I wished to keep it a secret from him for my sake. He believed that everyone and everything was out to get him. Knowing how poorly and rashly he reacted when it came to emotional matters, I did not wish to upset this conviction of his.

“Are you coming up to the school, my boy?” Slughorn asked eagerly. “I am not the only teacher who has been concerned by your silence and absence, you know.”

“They will forget me easily enough when someone beats my O.W.L scores,” Riddle replied, a teasing smile curling his lips.

“Nonsense!” Slughorn decreed, punching his fist on the table. The Firewhiskey must have been settling into his blood, certainly, for him to resort to such dramatic gestures. “Tom, my boy, you really ought to consider that there are those who love you for much more than your O.W.L scores. I know you have had a difficult childhood, but I tried to make up for it the best I could when you were under my care.”

I cast Riddle a wary glance, worried how he would react to such plain sincerity. His knuckles were white against the dark goblet he held and his eyes were wide in shock and disbelief.

“Tom, Tom,” Slughorn remonstrated, grabbing Riddle’s lax left hand which had been lying on the table. The Professor took it between his flipper-like palms. The contrast was fascinating. Slughorn pushed back the sleeves of Riddle’s cloak and traced the small crater-shaped scars on his thin wrist. Riddle flinched and tried to withdraw his hand, but his strength was no match for Slughorn’s.

I set my Firewhiskey down and gripped my wand, ready to intervene should it all go to hell, though I feared that nothing I could do would save Slughorn if Riddle reacted badly.

Slughorn looked up and met Riddle’s stormy gaze before whispering, “I have often wondered about these scars, you know. Tom, when I saw these scars for the first time, I wanted to go and find the culprits and avenge you. I would have taken you home with me every summer if Dippet had allowed me to. I cast wards of protection and strength over your orphanage during the War while you stayed there. I did not do all of that because of your O.W.L scores, and if you still refuse to believe that I care for you as a man would care for a son-”

“I will tell you,” Riddle barked, cutting into Slughorn’s speech, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Sparks of green involuntarily burst at the tip of my wand as I wished, as I had done many times before, that he had been spared his childhood.

“My boy?” Slughorn asked, fearful.

Riddle took a deep breath and let his hand fall loose in Slughorn’s palm. The tendons at his throat were still strained, telling me that this apparent ease of his was only a façade. He said quietly, “The Muggle treatment for insanity involved injecting chemicals for inducing convulsions and seizures. Shaking the madness out, they called it. It was the year before I started at Hogwarts. It was a new technique. They needed to test it before they could use it on paying patients. An insane orphan was a good test subject.”

There was silence. Riddle’s hand trembled as he withdrew it carefully from the grip of Slughorn’s palms. I did not look at his face, but concentrated on draining the Firewhiskey and choking myself on its fiery burn.

“You would do well to forget it, Professor,” he was saying carefully. “It was all long ago. Now, about ambergris-”

“My poor, precious boy!” Slughorn exclaimed, alcohol and horrified sorrow bringing tears down his fat cheeks. Riddle made a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and muttered something about settling the tab and leaving. I cast a careful glance around. Most men in the tavern were too busy with their dealings of ill-repute to pay any attention to the scene unfolding here. The tavern-keeper, though, was keeping a wary eye on us as he dried goblets.

“I need to leave,” Riddle said abruptly. “Professor, I shall write. Malfoy, you know where to find me.”

He rose to his feet and pulled his hood down. Slughorn stood and dragged him into his arms. It was the most awkward embrace I had witnessed. Riddle coughed and ducked his head and quickly left. I suppressed a grin at his very evident discomfort and distracted Slughorn by pouring him another Firewhiskey.

“I wonder why Dippet and Dumbledore did not allow any of us to resolve the boy’s situation at the orphanage,” Slughorn muttered.

I shrugged. Reflecting on that had never done my temper any good.

“He reminds me of Prometheus, you know.”

“Prometheus Lestrange, the fifteenth century alchemist?” I asked. “Why? Riddle has an interest in alchemy, ‘tis true, but that is surpassed by his fascination for other fields.”

“Oh, not that Prometheus, Abraxas,” Slughorn said. “The original Prometheus. Haven’t you heard of the Greek Titan who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to our kind?”

“No, no, what is his tale?” I asked Slughorn, fascinated by the comparison he drew.

“Ah, it is a sorry tale, my boy.” Slughorn began crying again. I patted his shoulder nervously, cursing Riddle for leaving me to sort this out. On second thoughts, I could not blame him; he was hardly equipped to deal with hysterics.

“You see, he was punished for giving our kind the secret of fire.”

“Punished? How?”

“He was bound to a great rock for all eternity. And an eagle ate his liver every day only to have it grow back to be eaten again the next day. Tormented until the end of the world, they say.”

The Firewhiskey tasted like ashes on my tongue now. I gulped and began helping the Professor up. I would take him to Hogwarts and see him safely to his quarters. Then I would forget that I had ever heard the tale of Prometheus. The fine Madeira port in my cellars would help me to oblivion.

Slughorn came along tamely with me to the Castle. The wards felt different. I frowned. There, at the head of the stairs, waited a familiar bearded figure wearing fine blue robes swirling with embroidered stars and crescent moons.

“Professor Dumbledore,” I greeted him.

“How kind of you to bring Horace back, Abraxas!” he said jovially, lending his strength to mine as we chivvied the drunk Potions Master into the Great Hall.

“The wards feel changed,” I remarked.

“Ah, it has become necessary in these times to keep undesirable elements from breaching the sanctity of grounds!” Dumbledore said sadly.

I thought of Slughorn inviting Riddle to the Castle and Riddle swiftly changing the subject. Riddle had changed the subject each time I had asked him to visit Hogwarts. He had been warded out by the Headmaster, then.

My grip tightened on Slughorn and I said quietly, “Riddle has done nothing to warrant such an insult.”

“Dear me, dear me, Abraxas, as loyal as ever, I am glad to see,” Dumbledore said genially. “Are you so sure of it, though? Do you have an inkling of his recent activities?”

Slughorn stirred slightly from his alcoholic stupor and muttered, “Our poor, precious Prometheus. Abraxas, you will tell him that I am sorry to have upset him today, won’t you?”

“Very well, Sir,” I said politely. “Now why don’t you go along with Professor Dumbledore? He will see you to your quarters. I have to be going now.”

I left Dumbledore to manage Slughorn and hurried out of the Castle, taking deep breaths to calm myself. Did I have an inkling of Riddle’s recent activities? What did Dumbledore think of me? I might be a fool, but I was a comprehensive one. I knew well what Riddle had been doing. I had suspected it ever since that business with the Chamber of Secrets. It was not as if Riddle went out of his way to hide his fascination with the forbidden.

I took yet another deep breath and Apparated home as soon as I was outside the gates of the school.

* * *

My wife went into labour the very night Burke Fire-Called me, summoning me to his shop to take charge of his shivering, feverish, delirious assistant. There was no question as to whose side I rushed to. I knelt on the grimy hearthrug of Burke’s shop and gently coaxed the thrashing form of Riddle to me. He was frothing at the mouth and his lips were bleeding from where he had bitten through them. I gathered him to me, chafed his cold hands in mine, enveloped him in my fine cloak and ordered one of my House-Elves to take us to the Manor.

There, as the night groaned on, interspersed with my wife’s cries as she brought to life my heir and son, I remained cloistered in my chambers as I tended to Riddle. The roaring fire in my hearth did nothing to stop his shivering. He moaned and flinched each time I tried to cover him with blankets. His skin, sensitised by the magic he must have done, bruised and reddened as he thrashed about on my sheets. I had removed his clothes when he had begun clawing at them. Now he remained unclad, and that threw the old locket on his neck into sharp relief against his red skin. Slytherin’s locket. I could not remove it with either hands or magic. What had he done?

Finally, at my wit’s end, I did what my father had once done when I had been inconsolable and feverish. I lay down on the bed and pulled him atop me. As the day dawned, I heard a little boy’s lusty cries from the other wing replacing his mother’s screams. Riddle was collapsed upon me a drained heap of flesh. I pushed back his hair from his sweat-dampened face and wondered, once again, what dark magic he had done to tear himself so. My sheets were stained with his blood; he had clawed himself and bit himself and the locket had cut into his chest. I wondered where his wand was. Sighing, I pushed him off me and dragged the duvet over his thin, emaciated frame. At another time, if I had had the opportunity to see him divested of bearing and apparel, I might have lingered to appreciate the sensual, aesthetic beauty of his form. Now, though, all I felt upon looking at him was bleakness and fear. He took a deep breath and I noticed how his stomach formed a concave depression. I thought of Prometheus and the eagle ripping out his liver. Stumbling, I rushed out of the room. It took me nearly twenty minutes to return to a semblance of self-possession. I bid the House-Elves to keep Riddle’s presence a secret. Then I made my way slowly to the other wing to see my heir.

The boy was a cherub; all bonny cheeks and golden curls and soft beauty in the bleak sunlight that washed through the French windows. Something in my aching heart stirred at the sight of him.

I knew well that this would change nothing. My regard for Riddle would remain unabated. At the most, I would only be a father in name to this cherub, just as I was only a husband in name to my wife. But the boy, the sight of him, ceased my thoughts and fears about my Prometheus.

For that benevolence he brought me, for my heart’s easing, I named the cherub Lucius.

* * *

It was nearly two months before Riddle recovered from his foray into forbidden magic. The liberties that he could not protest to while he lay bedridden were all now taken away from me as he convalesced. He treated me with polite imperiousness and shied away from my questions. I did not press him for I truly had no wish to have answers.

“You drugged me while I was ill,” he told me one day, his grey eyes gleaming in conviction.

“Yes,” I said wryly, shoving a cup of tea into his hands. It was made exactly as he preferred it. What did it say about our situation that I had stooped as low as to make him tea instead of ordering the House-Elves?

“Why?”

“You were a pitiful sight, Riddle,” I said harshly, all my heartache and worries of the past two months coming to the fore. “You had gone and destroyed your sanity and health with whatever you had done with that locket of yours. I could not call in a Healer or have you admitted to St. Mungo’s, not with Dumbledore sniffing your doings and watching your every step. I was sick of being called Father Sebastian. I was sick of your begging and your pleading in your delirium and sick of how you promised me that you would be a good boy and ride my cock if only I allowed you to return to Hogwarts to complete your education! For pity’s sake, Riddle, you were sixteen, then, and you had killed already, I know you had killed already! Why didn’t you kill that bastard?”

The teacup clattered against the saucer as he sat up against the headboard. He did not meet my eyes, but I could see how his fingers trembled. I could see the bleakness in his grey eyes.

“Perhaps I liked it, Malfoy,” he whispered.

He could charm the world with his pretty lies. It worried me that I saw through them so easily. Did he think that he had no reason for making me believe his artifices? Was it that I was inured to them?

“You did not,” I stated, with all the conviction that I possessed, of knowing him and of knowing his flaws.

He inclined his head to me and lifted his teacup in mock laudation. “Well deduced, Malfoy. As perceptive as Albus Dumbledore himself, aren’t we?”

I grabbed the teacup from him and put it away. He stiffened when I perched on the bed and put a hand on his left knee.

“Why didn’t you kill him?”

He did not answer. I had not expected him to. I sighed and removed my outer robes and arranged myself on the bed carefully under the duvet. After what seemed to be an eternity, he waved his hand and the candles were extinguished. Then he got under the duvet and turned away from me, facing the window. I pulled his left hand to me and ran my fingers over the scars on his wrists, the scars that were from the asylum. He flinched but did not move away.

* * *

“I will teach your son to kill in my name.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

We were standing in the copse of trees that marked the eastern borders of the Malfoy estate. I still considered it the Malfoy estate, not mine, not my father’s. Strange, was it not, that Riddle the orphan would leave a legacy all his own while the privileged son of the Malfoy line would have nothing of his own to remember me by in a century or so. A tuft of wind rippled through the glade and the treetops shifted to show me the wide expanse of the night sky above us. A meteor blazed brilliant white against the inky blackness of the skies. Prometheus.

“It does not disturb you that I will teach your son to kill?”

“The world is changing, Riddle. Between Dumbledore and the Ministry and you, my son will need to learn to kill if he is to survive. I am not a Muggle Catholic. I set store more on my son’s life than on his soul.”

He did not reply.

I continued, recklessly, “And Muggle Catholics aren’t as sans blemish as they are vaunted to be, I have noticed.”

He inhaled sharply but did not reply to my silent accusation. I had been to that awful place. I had seen that cruel man presiding in his pulpit and preaching about a God that would see him in the seventh circle of hell for what he had done to Riddle. I had wanted to kill him, to torture him, to make him pay, but I had been unable to. Protections powerful and fatal had surrounded the priest; protections that bore the magic of a man I knew.

“Why?” I asked, tired and weary beyond the silence I had granted him all these years.

He shook his head and came closer. When there were scarce inches between us, his tormented gaze met mine. I sighed and let my hand trace the sharp bone jutting from a gaunt cheek. He did not lean into my palm, but his eyes slid half-closed and the tension in his frame lessened.

* * *

I killed a man for the first time on the last day of 1958.

I had been seated in my study, quietly looking over the household accounts and enjoying a glass of fine port. Twilight had just set in. It was then, even as I had looked at the bay window to glance at the fairylights in the garden, that a powerful, crippling ache seized my heart and brought me to my knees. I scarcely remember how I had found wand and cloak and rushed out to the Apparition point half-mad and barely coherent. I ended up in the middle of a skirmish between Aurors and the Death-Eaters, and there he stood, the bane of my existence, poorly shielded by a fast-waning spell, and struggling to stay untouched by the assault of the Aurors led by Mad-Eye Moody. An ambush, it was clear, for the Death-Eaters were dropping to the ground as flies swatted by careful aim.

I remember screaming as green light breached the shield around him. I remember the taste of salt on my lips as he swerved away at the last second. I remember shouting and curses bursting as fire from my wand-tip and the Aurors scattering like hyenas as they retreated from my madness. I remember silence and then a warm, bony arm pulling me close and Apparating me to the copse of trees at the eastern border of the estate. I fell apart then. I cannot remember how it came about that his cloak and robes were ripped and scattered as rags on the mossy ground, I cannot remember how it came about that my nails were raking bloody furrows on his pale skin, or how it came about that I was crying over the scars on his wrists and kissing them as if the act was as essential as breathing itself, or how it came about that we winded up as a tangle of dead leaves, muddied limbs and heaving chests. How close had he come to dying on his birthday?

He pried away my hand from its claw-like grip on his chin. Then he took a long breath and muttered, “I hope you are happy. This has no doubt been your greatest desire since you caned me in 1942.”

It was not his words, but the bleakness in his eyes which stabbed me. He had expected me to do this sooner or later. I slapped him then.

He never stayed a night at the Manor after that. He took especial care to avoid even accidental touches. I kept a watch on him as well as I could and offered one of my House-Elves who knew his tastes in food to the Blacks who hosted him quite often.

* * *

Consumption, which had plagued my wife for years, finally carried her away in the November of 1964. Healers had asked me to be at her bedside that day, since they feared that she would not live to see the next. I had kept vigil until a House-Elf came bearing tidings of a feverish, delirious man who had stumbled onto the eastern borders of the estate. I abandoned my dying wife and hurried to his side. As all those years ago, I tended to him as gently and affectionately as I could, letting my regard show in touch and word, as a starving man does at a feast. He was in no state to resist.

After he had recovered well enough to speak coherently, he asked me, “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in your marriage bed?”

“My widower’s bed, you mean?” I asked him.

His eyes widened and he looked truly taken aback for the first time in our acquaintance. Then he cleared his throat and asked me for tea. I complied. I always did.

* * *

The latest scare was enough to make me go to Hogwarts. I had no clue as to what I sought at the castle. I had thought that my steps might take me to Slughorn, who might at least provide a comforting shoulder. I had always suspected that Slughorn knew of my regard for Riddle. The old fox had encouraged it as best as he could.

I was mightily surprised when my steps took me instead to the Headmaster’s chambers. The door opened and Dumbledore greeted me with a twinkle in his eyes.

“My condolences, Abraxas.”

“Thank you,” I said, well aware of the weight of the funeral band on my arm bearing upon me as heavily as the lie of a wedding ring I still wore.

“Some boundaries should be left untouched,” he said quietly. “To distort them is to distort life and humanity itself.”

Often have I wondered where I had the courage to speak as I did then. I said, calmly, with all the cold anger stored in me on an orphan’s behalf, “He would have listened to you, you know, if only you had reached out to him when it had mattered. It was you that he looked up to, not Slughorn. You were the Zeus to his Prometheus. You called him forsaken before he had made his choices. You drove him to it as surely as his own ambitions did. You are culpable too, Dumbledore.”

He did not reply.

I sighed and made to leave, wondering what had brought me up here in the first place.

“Will you come to me offering betrayal when he becomes a soulless monster?” he asked softly.

I laughed at that, disbelieving and spiteful. Then I said proudly, quietly, with conviction, “I will not be his traitor as you were Grindelwald’s, Dumbledore. He does not understand it, you do not understand it, but it does not matter at all. I will not betray him.”

“Even if his wand shall be your death’s herald?”

“Even so,” I said firmly.

“What of your son?”

Riddle’s insanity would only increase over the years. Would he be the end of my son?

“My choices will not be swayed by your words, Dumbledore. Good day.”

* * *

When I returned to the Manor, I went to bed directly. I had relocated to a set of guest chambers since Riddle, convalescing, was in my chambers. I was surprised to find him in the guest-bed, already in his night-shirt. As I neared him, I could smell brandy on his lips. It was unlike him to indulge on his own.

“What is this?” I asked him. I had tired of silences and misunderstandings. I had tired of his cynicism and lack of trust in my motivations.

He took a deep breath and said quietly, “Whatever you wish it to be.”

“Is this because I went to Dumbledore?” I asked him. He shook his head. So he had known. Was he lying as to the reason?

“What do you wish this to be?” I asked him.

“I thought he loved me,” he said, in a low, cold voice that unsettled me.

“It was wrong and cruel,” I said hotly. “I would kill him-”

“I thought he loved me,” he repeated clearly. Yet, in his tone was a faint echo of hope. I had rarely heard that before in his words.

“Yes,” I said simply, offering him the answer to the question he would not dare ask.

He fell silent at that, but his harsh breathing testified to how taken aback he was by my plain answer. I had tired of hiding. I left him and changed into my night-clothes. When I returned, he was facing me.

“I would rather not-” he began. I cut him off with a nod and extinguished the candles. Then I arranged myself on the bed so that I did not touch him at all. That was it. I lay awake after he had slipped into sleep. Then I nodded off to the sound of his deep breathing. In the morning, when we woke, we were tangled, but we said nothing of it.

* * *

I began inviting Slughorn for lunch at a restaurant on Diagon’s Alley the first Saturday of every month. We would speak on many subjects, from his latest acquisitions to my business activities. Somehow or the other, our talk would bring us to that orphan we had in common. It was a relief speaking of him to someone who thought of him as fondly as I did.

“I had seen this, you know,” Slughorn told me one day over fine caviar and champagne.

I frowned in bewilderment.

“I knew that you would be good for him,” he said quietly. “In fact, by the time when he had started his fifth year, I had started to fear that nothing might temper him, until I saw you return from your father’s funeral a proud and responsible young man.”

I set my champagne flute down with considerable force and enunciated my reply clearly, saying, “You might have noticed, Horace, that I have done nothing to temper him. The Aurors hunt him for a reason.”

He laughed sadly at that and said, “Abraxas, my boy, do you think that it could not be worse?”

I did not reply to that. It could be worse. When the day came that Riddle’s insanity surpassed what remained of his oft-wounded, deeply shielded heart, the Wizarding World would truly have to fear him.

“Be well, Abraxas,” Slughorn cautioned me. “We need you.”

* * *

“He was right, you know,” Riddle told me that night.

“Stay out of my mind,” I said wearily. “And he was not right. I have never been to deny you anything whereas you have always acted as you saw fit to.”

“You succour me when I am at my weakest and you don’t take advantage of that. Nor do you mock me for it. That makes you a knight. Not every cock-whore to a priest is lucky enough to get a knight.”

“You are not that,” I said fiercely. “You are many things, most of them unsavoury and worrying, but you are _not_ a whore.”

“And what is more miraculous is that you believe in the truth of your words,” he murmured. “Mon bon chevalier.”

When he moved closer and carefully placed his head on my shoulder, I sighed and let my fingers trace a well-defined cheekbone.

“I wager that this was not how you imagined your nights when you were fourteen,” he said.

“No,” I admitted. “There were luscious women and glorious sex involved. What of you?”

“I had not dared imagine anything beyond what my lot was,” he said simply.

Suppressing my wrath which arose whenever I thought of the orphanage or Father Sebastian or Dumbledore, I pressed a kiss to his brow. He flinched, as he always did at unexpected touches.

I dreamed of Zeus and Prometheus and the forbidden fire. I dreamed of great eagles ripping apart my Riddle, bound to a rock, while I stood helpless and weeping. I woke with a scream and that awakened my companion.

“Hush,” he said, making me sip cool water. Then he settled against the headboard, pulled me awkwardly against his bony chest and hummed Chopin’s Nocturne. Even as I drifted again to sleep, carried on the waves of his music, I clung to his hands and demanded in a sleep-slurred voice, “You will not be captured alive, will you? You will not be bound, will you, as Prometheus was?”

He brushed his lips against my brow and said quietly, “It is the only thing you have asked of me. I give you my word, sworn on my magic, that I will not be captured alive or bound. There is only one thing that is capable of binding me, you know.”

Something in that tone of voice and phrasing stirred deep in my mind and I understood what he spoke of. Touched, gratified and afraid all at once, I said, “I would never do that to you. I would never dare bind you.”

“It is my choice, isn’t it?” he asked me, a sliver of amusement creeping into his low timbre.

I stared at him, sleepiness retreating and painful disbelief etched on every line of my face.

“You know when I lie to you,” he reminded me.

“Yes.”

“Then you ought to know that I spoke the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Why does it unsettle you so? Is it not an end you have wished for?” he enquired, speaking as lightly as if this were a discussion on the weather.

“I would never bind Prometheus,” I repeated my words of earlier.

“I understand now,” he replied, looking at me with the most peculiar expression on his face. “I do understand now.”

~~~

 

In Greek mythology, Prometheus steals the fire from the Gods and gives it to mankind for which he is punished by Zeus.

 


End file.
